


Breath and Blood

by ferowyn



Series: Hobbit Kink [18]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Durincest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 08:38:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferowyn/pseuds/ferowyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kili is in danger and his brother tries to rush forward to save him but he's held back by the others on Thorin's orders</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breath and Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hobbit Kink Meme Prompt:  
> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3393.html?thread=5527873#t5527873
> 
> Please excuse any mistakes, English is not my mother tongue
> 
> I know that reading this is exhausting… but I hope you guys like it anyway. I was feeling rather sadistic today O.o

## Breath and Blood

Two hundred and sixteen. Fili is staring at the pool of red liquid on the floor; he is counting the drops falling, adding to the size of the puddle. Two hundred and seventeen. For a second his eyes rest on the source of the liquid, he watches another drop break through the surface tension. Two hundred and eighteen. It hits the pool, sending small circular waves over the surface. Two hundred and nineteen. There goes another one, way too short after the last one. Two hundred and twenty. His eyes follow the waves, rolling towards the shores made by a stony floor. Two hundred and twenty one. He thinks about rough lips and raw kisses. Two hundred and twenty two. His fingers have gone numb and cold, but who cares? Two hundred and twenty three. The bandage is soaked and no matter how much pressure he applies, the drops keep coming. Two hundred and twenty four. Fortunately they have been slowing down in the last hours. Two hundred and twenty five. Or not. Two hundred and twenty six.

Gandalf says he has done everything he can. Two hundred and twenty seven. Fili feels sick. Two hundred and twenty eight. _Everything he can_. Two hundred and twenty nine. Fili has not done everything he can. Two hundred and thirty. He could have done so much more, had the others only let him. Two hundred and thirty one. Had it not been for Dwalin’s arms around his torso – then he would not be sitting here. Two hundred and thirty two. Then there would be no blood to look at. Two hundred and thirty three. Fili knows that he could have made it out without a scratch, and his brother would not have been hurt either. Two hundred and thirty four. He thinks about his brother’s desperate attempts to defend himself and the look in his eyes. Two hundred and thirty five. Help. Two hundred and thirty six. His brother knows how to wield a sword, but his weapons are bow and arrow. Two hundred and thirty seven. Fili knows how to be deadly with a sword, and how to be the devil himself with two of them. Two hundred and thirty eight. Especially when in rage. Two hundred and thirty nine. He had definitely been in rage. Two hundred and forty. He could have done something. Two hundred and forty one. He is never going to forgive his uncle for telling Dwalin to hold him back. Two hundred and forty two.

If it had not been for his uncle’s order his brother would not be lying here, in a bed in Beorn’s house, injured. Two hundred and forty three. His chest would not be bare, covered in bandages. Two hundred and forty four. Fili’s arm would be numb because of the weight of his brother sleeping, not because of him being unconscious. Two hundred and forty five. There would not be blood leaping from the particularly deep gash in his leg. Two hundred and forty six. He wished there was fury left to deal with, but all he can feel are despair and guilt and betrayal. Two hundred and forty seven. He _cannot_ lose his brother. Two hundred and forty eight.

Fili’s eyes are dark. Two hundred and forty nine. He thinks about the warg-pack, ridden by more orcs than they had ever been expecting to find in these lands. Two hundred and fifty. He thinks about his brother’s battle-cry and arrows cutting through the air, finding their way into the bodies of the beasts. Two hundred and fifty one. About running towards the attackers himself, desperate to protect his injured uncle. Two hundred and fifty two. About letting his blades sing, tearing flesh and bones. Two hundred and fifty three. About Dwalin’s growl, fighting next to him, his axes keeping every attacker away from his king. Two hundred and fifty four. About the thrill of the fight and the knowledge that they were close to victory. Two hundred and fifty five. About suddenly seeing his brother surrounded by wargs. Two hundred and fifty six. About the knife at his throat. Two hundred and fifty seven. About the rest of the company backing off. Two hundred and fifty eight. About struggling against Dwalin’s iron grip, desperately trying to run towards his brother. Two hundred and fifty nine. About the carrier of the knife attacking, and his brother blocking. Two hundred and sixty. About still being held back. Two hundred and sixty one. About the teeth of wargs being buried into his brother’s torso and the dirty knife sliding through his thigh as if it were made of butter. Two hundred and sixty two. About breaking free. Two hundred and sixty three. About being filled with so much fury that the rest of the world had faded and he had reached his stumbling brother within seconds, running through the wargs and orcs with a strength that came from the depth of his heart. Two hundred and sixty four. About slaughtering those attackers, the rest of the company finally helping them. Two hundred and sixty five.

About his brother crumbling and falling to the floor, his fingers no longer clutching the hilt of the sword. Two hundred and sixty six.

Fili gnashes his teeth and for a second he tears his gaze away from the steadily growing pool of blood. Two hundred and sixty seven. For nothing more than a moment his eyes linger on his brother’s pale face, then they fly back towards the drops. Two hundred and sixty eight. Because watching the blood is easier. Two hundred and sixty nine. Then the deathly pallor and the dark violet circles under the closed eyes are less present. Two hundred and seventy.

His brother had almost died. Two hundred and seventy one. He still could die. Two hundred and seventy two. Fili tries not to think about it, lets himself be carried away by the fascination of a constantly moving and stilling surface. Two hundred and seventy three. He would really love to see the sea one day. Two hundred and seventy four. But not without his brother. Two hundred and seventy five. There is nothing he wants to do without his brother. Two hundred and seventy six. Nothing he can do without his brother. Two hundred and seventy seven. His thoughts are travelling, running and spinning until they find the memory of calloused fingers running over his bare skin and throaty moans. Two hundred and seventy eight. He is not going to lose this. Two hundred and seventy nine. He _cannot_ lose this. Two hundred and eighty. Because without his brother he is nothing. Two hundred and eighty one. His brother is his breath and he is his brother’s blood. Two hundred and eighty two. Thus all those drops do not matter as much as they might seem to, because Fili is still here and that means that there is enough blood. Two hundred and eighty three. But he cannot do anything against the poisoning, coming from that blasted orc-knife. Two hundred and eighty four. He also cannot fight the exhaustion taking his brother’s soul even further away. Two hundred and eighty five. His brother cannot bleed out that easily because Fili is still here. Two hundred and eighty six.

But if his brother should die none the less Fili will no longer be able to breathe. Two hundred and eighty seven.

He is lying on his side, next to his brother. Two hundred and eighty eight. His brother’s head is resting on his arm, keeping his own blood from circulating. Two hundred and eighty nine. That does not matter, though. Two hundred and ninety. Both of them lying close to the edge of the edge of the bed and his head resting on his brother’s bandaged chest he sees the pool on the floor well enough to be tired of blood for the moment. Two hundred and ninety one. His free hand is still pressed to the wound in the thigh. Two hundred and ninety two. He feels his eyes fall shut, but he cannot let sleep take him away now. Two hundred and ninety three. What if he wakes up and his breath is gone? Two hundred and ninety four.

The drops start to come less often, the surface of the pool now being still more often than being run through by waves. Two hundred and ninety five. It is still fascinating, or at least fascinating enough to keep oneself awake. Two hundred and ninety six. Fili still does not tear his eyes away from the drops forming on the underside of his brother’s thigh which is not situated on the bed, but over the floor. Two hundred and ninety seven. Slowly the soaked bandage seems to be drying. Two hundred and ninety eight.

Then his brother moves and the wound breaks open once again. Two hundred and ninety nine. Three hundred. Three hundred and one. Three hundred and two.

He thinks of words whispered in the dark, and the knowledge that no one can ever find out, no matter the circumstances. Three hundred and three. He remembers the struggle in those brown eyes he knows so well, the choice between doing what _was_ right and what _felt_ right. Three hundred and four. He has not forgotten the many sleepless nights that making the decision had brought upon them, and the many more nights the decision itself had taken their sleep. Three hundred and five. Do what they wanted to do or what everyone else wanted them to do? Three hundred and six. They both wanted – still want – the same. Three hundred and seven. That did not make it any easier, though. Three hundred and eight. It still does not. Three hundred and nine. The only difference is that by now they have learned to live with it. Three hundred and ten.

Fili cannot lose him. Three hundred and eleven.

His brother moves again. Three hundred and twelve, three hundred and thirteen, three hundred and fourteen.

Then his eyelids flutter. Three hundred and fifteen.

“Fili?” Three hundred and sixteen. His voice is hoarse. Three hundred and seventeen.

Fili still does not manage to tear his gaze away from the drops. Three hundred and eighteen “Brother.” Three hundred and nineteen. There is no need for him to say more, for his brother will hear everything in his voice. Three hundred and twenty.

“I am fine.” Three hundred and twenty one.

He gnashes his teeth. Three hundred and twenty two. “No.” Three hundred and twenty three. “You are not.” Three hundred and twenty four.

“But I will be.” Three hundred and twenty five.

Fili does not say anything. Three hundred and twenty six.

“It is okay.” Three hundred and twenty seven. “You are here.” Three hundred and twenty eight.

“Where else would I be?” Three hundred and twenty nine.

His brother eyes the red pool on the floor. Three hundred and thirty. “Yes,” he says. Three hundred and thirty one. “Where else would you be?” Three hundred and thirty two. “How am I?” Three hundred and thirty three.

“You lost a lot of blood.” Three hundred and thirty four. “But you woke up.” Three hundred and thirty five. “That’s a good sign.” Three hundred and thirty six. “I guess.” Three hundred and thirty seven.

His brother smiles. Three hundred and thirty eight. “I cannot have lost that much blood.” Three hundred and thirty nine. “After all you are still here.” Three hundred and forty.

“Yes,” Fili agrees. Three hundred and forty one. “I am still here.” Three hundred and forty two. “And you are as well.” Three hundred and forty three.

“Then keep breathing,” his brother jokes. Three hundred and forty four.

Fili nods, gaze still fixed on the drops. Three hundred and forty five. He cannot look at his brother, because if he does he might do something others can never know about and although they are being left alone here, in Beorn’s house, this is far from privacy. Three hundred and forty six.

“What are you doing?” Three hundred and forty seven.

“Counting.” Three hundred and forty eight.

“Stop it.” Three hundred and forty nine. “I am right here.” Three hundred and fifty. “I am not going anywhere. I will be fine.” His voice says all those things his words are avoiding.

You will not lose me.  
I am with you.  
I love you.

 _Breathe_.

Fili takes a deep breath and tears his gaze away from the blood.


End file.
